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Racing
Nyon was once a grand and glittering capital. There are remnants, here and there, of what it once was: old murals, half-erased by time's unkind hand; fallen columns where once stood a grand hall; old melodies, carried and preserved through the many long years. A broken column holds up the cracked roof in the center of what is now a bar, but once, maybe, was a grand reception area. There are faded pictures on the wall that suggest a long-ago past. The music -- well, the music is mostly being ignored, to be honest, at least by Hot Rod, who's one at a table with a handful of others at the end of what looks to have been a rowdy conversation judging by the spilled drinks. "--didn't get a look at him, to be honest," Hot Rod lies through a smile as he leans back, arm hooked on an empty chair. "But spread the word, tell your people to watch out, would you? Don't really know who -- or what -- they might hit next." The others gather their things to rise with grumbles, agreement, and farewells to leave Hot Rod behind with the mess. Let's hope they didn't also stick him with the tab. A smallish femme enters into the faded establishment, which in its contrast of old grandeur and present decrepidness represents Nyon as a whole. She quickly sidesteps as a group of customers make their way out, not wishing to bar their exit. Or really, to be any inconvenience to anyone at all, for the femme prefers to avoid conflict where she can. That isn't to say she is overly successful at it. Once they have passed, Swivel props herself up on her darkly painted tippy-toes and looks around. She's an unfamiliar face in the scene, and it is a bit obvious by the way she seems to take her time just observing the decor and otherwise letting herself soak in the atmosphere. Glancing after the others as they leave, Hot Rod marks Swivel when she enters. Recognition comes with a belated grimace, but after a second he calls out to her, "Hey! You!" Yeah, that's his level of courtesy, right here. Subtle, too. Subtlety would be wasted upon this femme anyhow. It takes Swivel a moment of glancing around until her purple optics also light with the sign of recognition. She stares at Hot Rod, her mouth partially open and optics blank. She then points a brass finger to herself and mouths 'me? whilst raising her optic ridges in a questioning manner. Hot Rod answers this confusion by pointing at Swivel, crooking his finger, and then angling out the chair he'd been leaning on. This forces him to straighten up, but it's a sacrifice he is willing to make. "You, come on. Unless you want me to shout it. Which I could. I mean, I'm totally willing, just say the word. Keep standing there." It doesn't take much more convincing than that to get the femme to finally approach. She grabs the chair offered and spins it around, sitting straddle as she uses the back of the chair to rest her arms and chin upon. Swivel peers at Hot Rod with her large optics, her mouth obscured by the nest of fingers and knuckles she rests her head upon. And now, she silently waits for Hot Rod to say whatever it was he was going to say. The silence makes Hot Rod a little uneasy. It's visible in the way he leans back, pausing half a moment to rethink what he was going to say. "Look, I know you talk, so what's with the silent act?" Sitting forward and collecting his drink, cube down to the last dregs of a pale glow, he tips it toward her. "Look, I'm letting people know, but you work in the tunnels, right? And you've got friends who do? You should let them know that Senate forces are planing hidden mines in tunnels underneath Nyon." But she wouldn't know anything about that, right? There is a VERY long period of silence following the mention of mines, but rather than surprise, the femme looks uncomfortable. She sinks her her , slipping her chin and mouth behind the back of her chair while gripping the back of it more tightly. She glances about herself, as if expecting to see a flash or blue or white. Finally she sits up straight, gripping the back of the chair very tightly. "I know." With all the complications of their last meeting, Hot Rod might be forgiven for being suspicious of her response. He's not. He gives her a closer look, yes, but it's particularly aimed at her lower limbs for sign of any injury. "Don't tell me you've run into them? You know? Can you show me where it was on a map? If there are multiple tunnels, I'll need to let people know about that one, too." There are no injuries that would indicate getting up close and personal with mines. The femme just has the regular wear-and-tear of someone who can't afford cosmetic refinishing and fix ups for all the little nicks and dings. She looks extremely uncomfortable now and squirms a little. She glances over her shoulder, up at the ceiling, and at all of the columns. She then turns to look at Hot Rod. "I han't stepped on any, no.... but... I seen 'em. I 'ave sensors..." Her voice trails off into such a soft decibel that she is almost hard to hear. "What'd you say? Sensors?" Hot Rod pings a file in her direction: a map of Nyon's tunnels. There's nothing official about it. Perhaps once the bare bones outline of the map came from official city archives, but it has long been, uhm, refined by multiple hands. It's more accurate as a result, but it has -- character. The tunnel she already knows of has been marked with heavy hazards: BOMBS HERE. "Take a look at that map. The place you found them the same, or somewhere else?" Swivel takes her time examining the map, and can not help but smile a little bit at it, although her body language and optics still show a fair amount of tension and uncertainty. After a while she nods. "Same... I tried ta divert peeps wi'a sign 'n blockin' th'way wi'some debris.... but... I dinna know th'gov'ment was be'ind it an so I 'ported it... I really shoulna be talkin' t'en'one 'bout it..." Swerve suddenly turns up right in the middle of this delicate moment. It's not that he just came in. It's just that it took him a while to decide if that was Hot Rod and if he should go over there and talk to him. He had been having an argument with his roommate Flanker over it until a few moments ago. Flanker was of the opinion that Hot Rod wouldn't want someone getting all in his business while he's out with a lady, and besides, the races are underground, often literally, which implies you shouldn't go yelling about them. But Swerve is hard to argue with, and now Flanker is over at the bar by himself and Swerve is sticking his big face in between Hot Rod and Swivel as if he was photobombing them. "Hey! Hey, Hot Rod! That's your name, right? Hot Rod? I saw you at the Underdome Drags last astrobreem! Did you hear about the big thing in Nyon? Are you going? Do you have..." Swerve drops his voice from 'enthusiastic yell' to 'uncomfortably familiar stage whisper' here. "...the inside line on the betting?" Flanker grimaces in embarrassment on Swerve's behalf from over fifty feet away and hides his face so that no one can see his reaction. Maybe no one will realize he came in with that guy. "No sign when I was there," says Hot Rod, tapping two fingers on the table as he considers the map. "You reported it, huh? So they knew you put it there, and went down and removed it." His gaze narrows into a simmer of outrage. "Why not talk about it? I think there's /plenty/ to say if they are putting mines down there where /anyone/ could--" He could probably keep going in this vein for ... a while. Swerve's interruption cuts Hot Rod off mid-sentence. He startles: from the sudden sideways glance to the upward hitch of his shoulders, his surprise telegraphs clearly. His outrage fades into bemusement, which shifts swiftly over a couple of letters to flat out amusement. "Hey, that was a good run. You in it, or watching?" He could probably stand to be quieter about illegal racing as well, but there's little about him that suggests quiet is a particular skill of his. "Yeah, I'll be there. Sounds like it's going to be a pretty tricky track. Running through old Nyon, you know? What isn't already broken probably will be by the end. Not sure who's running the bets, but you should totally bet on me." He grins, prior outrage all but forgotten as he waxes smug. If the femme should shrink any smaller, she would have. However, she is saved being further berated for doing what SHE was taught was right bu the interruption of a rather loud mech. She would hug and thank Swerve for the diversion, but that would just bring attention back to her, which she isn't particularly keen on right now. She remains very quiet while the two discuss racing, waiting for them to be good and distracted so that she may slip away. Although, the talk about racing does stem some interest. She's not the fastest car out there, but she knows she can take just about any obstacle. "You bet I will," Swerve replies with a bark of laughter at his own meager pun, giving a knowing nod and nudging Hot Rod with his elbow. "I heard you guys talking about bombs, are they going to be kicking up the festivities with some obstacles? I don't know if I approve of that sort of thing, kind of cheapens the sport if you ask me, but if that's what people want I guess you gotta give it to them, yeah? Keep it classy, Cybertron." He raises and wiggles his eyebrows to indicate that he and Hot Rod are clearly of a better sort of people. Finally he seems to notice Swivel. "Oh, hi. You racing in this one?" "Oh, and I was just, you know, in attendance," Swerve replies to Hot Rod, turning back. "I'm not in, uh. In training. Not in season. I'm off-season." Swerve seems a little evasive about the fact that he's not a racer himself. "I was just taking in the ambiance. The thrill of the crowd! The smoking rubber and the roar of the engines! I always like to get up trackside if I can. Work permitting." Oblivious to Swivel's discomfort until Swerve redirects his attention to her, Hot Rod glances over. He gives Swivel another considering look, but rather than hunt injury, he considers her probably alt mode. "You look like you could handle a few obstacles, right? You should," he encourages. "I mean, it's mostly for fun, but you might actually win something." Hot Rod doesn't quite seem to know what to make of Swerve, judging from the stiffness of his smile when he looks back. Being presumptuously friendly is totally a thing /Hot Rod/ does, but having it turned back on him? It's taking him a bit to settle into it: "No, the bombs were, uh, unrelated. Really unrelated." His eyes narrow. "Although that's a good point. Someone should go over the track ahead of time." His smile eases rueful and his manner settles. "There are definitely going to be obstacles, but you don't exactly need to blow anything up to get obstacles around here. I know what you mean about catching the races. Used to be a big fan." USED TO. "Did I mention I do bonding and surfacing? If you need any sponsorship imprints or decals or anything like that," Swerve adds, producing a holofilm of his own improbably-proportioned grinning face and one of his equally-disproportionate hands giving a big thumbs-up. The caption reads: SWERVE OF NYON - METALLURGY, PAINT, BONDING AND ANODIZING. "I do engines and transmissions too," Swerve whispers loudly. "Can't put it on the card though. Not licensed. Guild of engineers thing." "Nnnnnnnoooooo.... I han't e'er been in a race. 'Less y'count racin' 'gainst time. Do tha'lot, I do. An' obstacles, yeah... they dun much get in m'way," Swivel remarks, forcing herself to smile and stop being so uneasy. Her own uneasiness is making her nervous, and it's just a downward spiral. After all, she hasn't seen any sign of a certain quick mech spying on her. He could still be there, but she's decided not to let him rule her life, or at the very least, impede the social aspects of it. Okay. Swivel takes back that urge to hug Swerve. He reintroduced the B-word into the conversation. Luckily, Hot Rod didn't resume chastising the morally vulnerable femme. That may not be his intention (oh it probably is) but it feels like it to the femme who has always tried so hard to be a good femme. Right. Present conversation. "Wha's 'anodizing'?" "But rebels like us, we don't stand on that kind of ceremony, am I right?" interjects Swerve, wiggling his eyebrows at Hot Rod. "That licensing process is for chumps. It's all bribes and greased palms anyway. Well, I'm glad to hear they're not mining the track. That sort of thing just panders to the lowest common denominator. Bloodsport sickos. I mean, no offense if you're into the arena matches. Just, you know. Not my thing." He lights up when someone shows interest in his work. Not that he was unlit before. In fact he seems quite well lit, and he grabs a shot off a passing tray and throws money at the waiter to get a little more so. "That's a good question!" Swerve slugs the shot and slaps the shotglass onto the table. "Not a lot of people show interest in the details of coloring! Okay, so let's say you've got a titanium skin. You can paint it, sure, but paint's easy. You want to show a little shiiiine, ladies often do, you get yourself anodized. Basically I rig you up in an electrified harness which passivates the outer layer of your hull, increases your natural oxide layer a bit. Makes you resist corrosion a little better, resist wear, and best of all, the oxide layer is porous, right? Slightly porous. So you can impregnate it with dyes. Permanent color in the oxide layer. Verrrry clean look. Never chips like paint. Adds no weight at all." "Wow, that's quite a ... that's definitely a /logo/," Hot Rod agrees as he studies the holofilm. Amazed. That is definitely the word to describe the look on his face. "Good to meet you, Swerve. Engines and transmissions, huh?" His grin is a troublemaker's as he says, "I'll be sure to pass that on. I've got friends who could use it. Who cares about the guild as long as the work is good, right?" He could totally use the paint, himself -- he still carries the grayed out weld marks where he was so recently shot. And the dent. There's a dent, opposite side. And basically he's not in the kind of shape you might expect from someone with /flames on his hood/, but life is hard, and you do what you can. And sometimes that means a mech has to go around looking less than perfect. /Slightly/ less. "If obstacles don't get in your way, you should try it," he encourages Swivel. "I usually come out with a bent fender, but it's a lot of fun." "That'd be great!" Swerve replies enthusiastically, clapping Hot Rod on the back. "Always looking to network, meet other en-thu-si-asts." He pronounces it as if each syllable was a separate word. "Yeah, you should come! Check it out at least even if you don't enter. It's a great energy when all those engines are roaring in unison. Really makes you feel a part of something, you know? The appreciation of fine engineering. Athletic competition brings out the best in us!" Showing interest indeed. Swivel doesn't understand most of the terms that Swerve tosses about, but she seems to be following more or less, her optics glues to him as he speaks. "No chippin' y'say?" Swivel remarks. She tilts her head to the side as if considering something, and then her shoulders sag. She'd likely not be able to afford something nice like that. Not that she would say that out loud. She slouches forward until her chin is on theback of her chair again. And as she talks, her head appears to bob as rather than her jaw dropping down, her head is being pushed up due to her stationary chin. "Mebbe I WILL come an take a boo.... bu' I dun think I'd join. N'sure I'd wanner get involved.... coz I dun wanner get inta en'more trouble than I'm in a'ready." What a wet blanket. Flanker catches Swerve's eye reluctantly and taps his wrist in the universal gesture for 'time is passing.' Swerve ignores him. Eventually Flanker just leaves. Swerve looks worried for half a second before his usual overlarge smile reappears. "Hey, but tomorrow comes early, right? It was great finally getting to talk to you, Hot Rod! Keep the card, my shop address and contact info is on the back. And great meeting you..." Swerve offers both of them his hand to shake in turn but realizes he doesn't know Swivel's name. "Well, I'm Swerve, anyway. Don't worry about it, nobody at these things is going to retrorat out anybody else. It's the camaraderie! The brotherhood of racers! Answering to a higher authority, the principles of fair play and good honest sportsmanship!" Now there is back-clapping. Back-clapping! Hot Rod gives Swerve a sidelong glance. He shifts slightly in his seat, claiming a little more space in the angle of his arms, set of his feet. He squares his shoulders. And yet, despite the posturing, his grin remains easy. "Great feeling, when everyone's all running together, working as one." He sits forward, and points at Swivel. That this is rude does not stop him. "You do want to get involved. Trust me. Besides, if there's trouble, you just outrun it." The point of his finger becomes a wave of his hand, and he flashes Swerve's card in his wave before pocketing. "You too!" There is little hesitation in Swivel as she extends her hand to be shaken. "Swivel," she informs with a small smile. Ultimately, her face looks like it was made for smiling, and it brightens up all the more. "T'care!" Are Swivel's brief well-wishes. She then looks at Hot Rod for a long time, her smile fading. "I canna outrun th'sorter trouble th'follows me." Swerve positively struts out. He got to chat with Hot Rod! It's a good night. He's going to tell everybody at the shop about this whether they want to hear it or not. He pauses, however, after stepping out of Swivel's eyeline, to point at her and then give Hot Rod a thumbs-up, silently mouthing "go get 'em turbotiger" before he actually leaves. That's definitely what he mouthed. It's extremely easy to lip-read Swerve. "Wow, you're a downer," Hot Rod sensitively, tactfully observes. He glances across the table with its almost-empty cups and starts pullings things over that have more than a mouthful of fuel. "You should finish all of these. It probably won't kill you, and then maybe you'll stop moping. What's the deal, anyway? Or is that you reported it, and discovered the government is a bunch of slag-munching rust buckets, who don't care who gets hurt as long as they get what they want?" A downer? Swivel had never been called that before, and it shocks her somewhat, forcing her to step outside of herself for a moment and gain some minutia of perspective. It really isn't like her. Curse that Blurr! She looks at the partially finished cups and shrugs, reaching over for one and downing it swiftly before slamming the glass down on the table. "Well, see, I jus' tryin' t'live m'life an' not get involved in all th'crazies. I dun wanna be on the wrong side 'o th'law 'coz I 'ent got none ta look out fer me BUT the law." Swivel shrugs her shoulders. "Till now it dun me good. I get mugged, I 'port it, the baddie gets caught, I get m'stuff back. 'En I go to a clinic, get fixed up w'my 'ard earned pay. I stay honest an' I dun gotta 'member nuttin'. I always 'ave an alibi. Simple, yeah? Be good, no trouble... be bad, lotta trouble. Simple." GULP! Down goes another. "Hey, Swivel--" Because now Hot Rod knows her name, as she introduced herself to Swerve. Somehow he's missed it before. He uses her name with an air of assured friendliness that -- darnit! -- is awful similar to Swerve's manner. "Look, I'm going to tell you something. I mean, maybe you've figured it out already," he says, turning to her with a rueful smile. His words verge on condescending, but his manner is deeply earnest. "Law's not looking out for you. "Doesn't look out for people like us." Hot Rod's words are not quiet. He speaks with passion. "When I met you, down in the tunnel -- that friend of yours, he just assumed I was a criminal. We're taught not to trust each other by the whole system, so that they can turn us against each other, and keep us down. I might not've been around all that long--" He's a baby. Listen to him. He's a total baby. "--but even I know we've got to look out for each other. You see a tunnel set to blow up? You've already learned you can't trust them to take care of it. So we do. We take care of each other. Be bad? People help." Idly, Swivel dips a finger into another mostly empty glass and lifts it, watching the liquid gather into a droplet at her finger tip and depart for its journey back into the glass. She does this a few more times as Hot Rod gets his passion on. Finally she sticks her fingertip in her mouth as she glances over to Hot Rod. She is silent for a moment, begins to say something. Failing that due to oral obstruction, she removes her finger and tries again. "Th'friend o' mine 'ent used t'even bein' treated like a person..." Swivel remarks. "An I watched a friend of 'is... no I 'eld a friend of 'is as 'e lay dead in me arms. Fer what? Doin' 'is job 'en it wun't conven'int fer..." Swivel trails off looking uncomfortable. She then sighs. "Yeah, I'm gettin' the sumtin's not right with th'world. But I think.... I think th'are still good people in the system. Like tha' real sweet pink femme." Swivel grabs the glass she had been dipping into and finishes it, then sliding the empty recepticle to the other side of the table. "Thing is..." she leans forward and begins whispering. "I ne'er know 'en I'm bein' followed! 'E is always there 'en I think I'm safe...." "Of course there are good people in the system!" Hot Rod says with a wave of his hands. "I've got /friends/, you know? Good people. Femmes, mechs -- some of them are some of the best people I know. But a handful of people set against all brutality I've seen? The math's bad, Swivel." He studies her with an expression fading toward concern, and asks, "Who's following you?" Swivel looks about herself once, twice, thrice! Finally she moves in even closer, her face almost touching Hot Rod's. She whispers a single name. "Blurr." Clang. Hot Rod's palm meets his face at fair velocity. He drags his hand down, plants his elbow on the table, and curls his hand to form a fist. "Oh, well. Welcome to the club. Hope he doesn't shoot you, next." He gestures at his side. Blurr. "He's a good guy being used by some really /bad/ guys. You need to be careful." The reaction causes Swivel to pull back a bit, almost as if she thought that hand were going to hit her, not just an innocent facepalm. However, she quickly settles and sheepishly smiles for a moment, before dropping it. Then she smiles again. Talk about mixed feeling. "Kinda relief I 'ent 'lone in bein' troubled by 'im. But... 'e dun seem... right. Like... there was this time 'en 'e was askin' me fer 'elp an 'is talkin was all dif'rent an' sumtin in 'is, uh' optics told me.... 'e needed 'elp. BUt 'en I tried t'elp, 'e dashed off. D'ya know sumtin' 'bout that? 'Coz it got me not sure whether ta fear 'im 'er pity 'im." "Both." Hot Rod is serious as he studies Swivel, and his expression twists. "Definitely both. He's dangerous. I'm not kidding. But the people who are behind him are more dangerous yet. I'm not sure if it is just the IAA or what, since he's doing his work for the Senate, but -- it's something. I've tried to get people to help him. Some of the top medics and shrinks. They've refused, or they can't. I don't know how to help him. But he does need it." Swivel frowns as she listens to what Hot Rod says, getting very uneasy. "This sorter stuff 'int the'sorter thin' I deal with... yanno... I dunno what t'do 'er think. I jus' wanna keep doin' me job an' live me life w'out fear. I like smilin' an' laughin' an' jokin' an' havin' fun, but now I feel as though anythin' I do is gonna somehow get me in trouble. E'en talkin' 'ere with you..." Swivel throws her arms up in the air, clearly vexed by the situation. "I miss m'freedom to be ME! RRRRRAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAWR!" "Yeah, and I bet that friend of yours -- the one who died? I bet /he/ wanted to just keep doing /his/ job without having to live in fear." Oh yeah. Dirty blow. Hot Rod throws that punch without hesitation. "We're not in that kind of world anymore, if we ever were. It's ridiculous that you should have to live in fear. I refuse. /Be/ you. And if it gets you in trouble -- good. Then you're the kind of person I'd be happy to call a friend. That's why I help people. Because we can't trust the people we're supposed to." There is a pause and a look of deep contemplation. DEEP. Depth and Swivel with her round face and childlike large optics seem antithetical to each other, but there it is. Her snub nose is scrunched, her optics surrounded by all sorts of creases, and her mouth pushed into a tiny, thin line. "But... I dun wanna die. I din think much 'bout dyin' 'til YX-452 was in m'arms, dead. 'Eck I'd only jus' realised 'e was e'en alive moments 'fore." Swivel begins to take the last three glasses that have any substance in them and begins to pour them all into one. She looks at Hot Rod steadily. "But... I guess e'en obeyin' th'law is dangerous now... so might as well..." she shrugs her shoulders. "You'd 'elp me?" Hot Rod regards the bastardized muck that she creates through her alchemy with a slow grin. "That looks /terrible/," he says with dreadful enthusiasm. "Drink up." He should not be so excited. And yet--! He matches her shrug with one of his own. "Anyone who is trying to do the right thing and it just gets /police/ sniffing up their tailpipe? Yeah, I'd help. I'm not the only one. A lot of people in Nyon are learning that if we can't rely on them, we need to rely on each other." Without much hesitance or need to brace herself, Swivel bravely grabs that beast of a concoction and brings it to her lips. She pauses and lifts her optics to look at Hot Rod, and then pours the bizarre substances into her mouth. Gulp. Gulp. SLAM! "Hooooooooo-ey!" Swivel dips her chin, her optic ridges as high as they will go and her optics blinking furiously as she grabs the edge of the table, her fingers pressing tightly against the hard surface. She takes a moment to recover and then just smiles, tapping her fingers along the tabletop. "Wellum...." she pauses as if she lost her train of thought. After a moment of sitting there, face frozen with a half formed word lodged in her opten mouth, she shakes her head. "Right.... um.... 'ow... 'ow d'ya know 'oo is gunna 'elp, an 'oo, like m'self, still b'lieve... er like m'self earlier, not now so much.... but yeah... normal folks tha' still b'lieve in th'law. 'Ow d'ya know 'oo is 'elpin, and 'oo in't?" "I can't believe you drank that." Hot Rod sounds somewhere between disgusted and admiring. "Here's hoping you're not purging your tanks later." With blind optimism and naive faith, he says, "Most people tend to want to do the right thing. They just don't always know what it is. So -- you help them. Show them." "Show 'em.... hmmm...." Swivel reflects. "Wellum.... I'm not even shuuuure what the right thing is anymore. I jussst always did what I was told was the right thing." Strangely enough, despite some slurring on S's and other hiss-like noises, the femme seems to be speaking more clearly under the influence. "But I do want to be a good femme... because, you know, that... thing... where you treat otherz like you wanna be treated... and know yer place. I know my place. It's kinda near the bottom... but not all the way. That would be my friend, YX-939... 'e reeeeaaally needs a name yanno? I sssshhhhould give 'im one. Whadya think a good name is? Mebbe... uh... Bristle. No... 'e may sweep things, but 'e ain't bristly. Actually, kinner cute an' small like a pet. But 'e's a people sort..." "No. Stop." Hot Rod jabs his finger right into Swivel's face, which is totally rude. "That's scrap. Your place is where you want it to be. What they tell you? All of this stuff about castes and about functions? All of that? That's from them. That's not /from you/. You deserve the freedom to /find/ your place. And that's completely different from knowing it! Same with Y," who he is going to just call that. "He should find a name. Maybe he decides he does want you to give him one. That's okay. But you need to find what's right when people aren't telling you what to do. Not the Senate, not the Enforcers, not even me." Pursing her lips she gets a face full of finger that isn't her own, and she lifts her own hands and looks at them just to make sure, Swivel goes quiet and gives Hot Rod her undivided attention. "It's kinda easier to just let other people find a place for ya..." Swivel remarks. "But... then... easier isn't always as nice. Good things come from 'ard work, I likes ta think. But I think assessessesssment is a good thing... gives you a place to start... but maybe start with 'em then let people, sorta, grow from there. I live my life being told where to go and what to do... I dunno 'ow well I kin deal with makin' all me own decisions. I like my small ones... like which route to take or where to spend my money... I near freaked out when Blurr was tryin' to get me to spy for 'im. I'm not a spy, so someone telling me to Do that... it felt so... weird. I'm a courier, and yanno, I /LIKE/ being one. BUt it would be nice if I could go to nicer places without getting stared at because I'm outter place because I'm beneath them...a nd it would be nice not to get yelled at and have things thrown at me and 'ave that be, uh, wotser word... asseptable." Drunk? Definitely. "Assessment," says Hot Rod very carefully, suggesting the temptation to add another extra ess himself, "isn't a good thing the way they do it. It's not a place to start. It's the start, the end, everything in between. Look, you like what you do -- great. But a lot of people don't. They speak out, act out, they get beat down for it. Arrested. Rewritten. It's not right. None of it. It might be easy to close your eyes and say it's okay for you, but what about everyone else? I've never been very good at closing my eyes." He sounds smug, not even really pretending to false modesty. Swivel slouches forward, placing her elbow on the table and propping up her head on her fist. "Roight. What's good for me may not be good for others. I do like my job, though. Somtimes I think I was meant for something else, though... I dunno what. Like... they somehow messed up my assessment. I mean... I got these sensors that are... uh... well... I think I'm meant to explore. That's why I like the tunnels. But tunnels aren't so friendly now with all the mines... I watched him put them there, you know, but he made me promise not to tell anyone. But I couldn't not because people, good people, could get hurt. I told the wrong people, though, I guess, since they said it was supposed to be that way. Oh no... I really like to think I can keep my promises, but I am saying all the things I promised I wouldn't and now I'm no longer a femme of integrity. I'm a terrible, terrible person!" And the sobbing begins. She promptly places her folded arms down on the table and slams her face into the nest of arms, knocking a glass over. It takes Hot Rod a second to fish out the disconnected sentences. When he does, it seems Swivel's finally managed to jar him from his track: "Wait. /Blurr/ put them there? He asked you to /spy/?" He gets this all together about the time she starts crying, at which point panicked dismay overtakes his expression. CRYING FEMME. OH PRIMUS. He looks around for help, but he gets only a look of vague disapproval from the bartender like it is all his fault. Life's not fair. He pats the back of her head awkwardly, then leaves his hand on her shoulder. "Swivel -- Swiv. Look, integrity -- no, you might not be sober enough for this. Maybe we should find you a place to sleep it off." Upon feeling someone touch the back of her head, she throws back her head like a wolf about to howl. Instead of a hows it is a loud wail that, if people hadn't already noticed, certainly caused the others in the room to stop and stare at HOt Rod and Swivel. Particularly Hot Rod. How dare that mech make that femme cry! What a cad! Oh yes, it is plain by the looks on their faces that it is ABSOLUTELY Hot Rod's fault and not just the antics of an inebriated and therefor overly emotional femme. "I dun wanna sleeeeep! 'E'll know I told ya and I'll get killed in my sleep or dissssappeared! I can't sleep now! I'm dooomed! DOOOOOOOOMED!" Swivel begins banging the table with a fist. Hot Rod startles as she wails and holds up his other hand in a gesture of innocence. He's not murdering her, here, everyone! Stop glaring at him!! "No. No, he won't," he says, reaching to put his other hand over her fist when she bangs the table. "Look, I can find some place safe for you. How would he know, anyway? I won't let him do that." Snorg. Meep. Whimper. Swivel seems to be calming down some as she stares at Hot Rod. Nope, he's not murdering her. "See... this is why I dina want to tell anyone... because I didn't wanna 'ave to 'ide. But... I don't want people 'urt either." Swivel slumps again, seeming exhausted after having had herself a good cry. She gives a rueful, tired laugh. "'E just knows things... ha ha ha... but I 'aven't been silenced yet. Wellum.... what sorter place do you figger is safe?" "I don't know." Hot Rod thinks for a moment -- thinks hard -- and then admits, "And I don't know that anything is perfectly safe. The last time--" He cuts himself off rather hastily and says, "Never mind. Just ... it might be dangerous." Arrested, brainwashed -- he can leave out those bits. "But I can introduce you to people who've got no love for the Senate or its enforcers. Not criminals," Hot Rod adds with a note of irony. "But they'll help you if anyone tries to hurt you. If he really does just know things, it's possible that he, or someone else from the Senate, is tracking you. So I can't take you where I'd like. It's too dangerous if that's the case. This whole messed up pile of slag isn't very fair to you, I know. You shouldn't have to hide. So why don't we find you some place for now, then maybe see about getting someone to check you over and see if you're being tracked?" Swivel nods her head very slowly as she listens to Hot Rod. The naive femme knows nothing of brainwashing or rewriting. It is clear that death seems to be the only fate she fears, not realising there are worse things. "Okay... well... uh..." Swivel slowly rises to her feet, using the table and her chair as support. Once she is standing she glances about herself. "'Opefully there's somewhere nearby." Swivel takes a tentative step. Hey, that wasn't so hard as she thought it might be. She takes another step. Still right side up. "Because mebbe I oughter sleep it off as ya suggested..." Third step, a little teetering. "Right. Come on." Rising with her, Hot Rod watches the third wobble and offers his arm. "Fall on your face and I'm pretty sure everyone at the bar is going to come after me and murder me," he teases. He gets a brief distracted look as he places a call, checking in with this person or that, then says, "Yeah, okay. I know someone pretty close to here. She works transport--" Is transport, this being Cybertron. "--so there's lots of space, and she's got a couple of roommates so there will always be someone around. But if you have trouble, com me, okay? Here's my frequency. I don't want anyone else getting caught in Blurr's trouble." There is a smile of relief when Hot Rod's arm is offered, and she eagerly takes it to stabilise her steps. She even laughs freely at his teasing, uninhibited and genuine. "Sounds good t'me," Swivel responds as they both walk out of the bar. Perhaps things will look up for the courier after all, despite Blurr's interference.